Secretly Yours

2

ANNIE wore a briskly professional smile when Trent opened his door to her on Friday morning. The smile momentarily wavered when she saw him. As she’d left her house that morning, oddly nervous about seeing him again, she had tried to convince herself that he couldn’t really be as gorgeous as she’d remembered. But he was—and then some.

Not that his attractiveness should make any difference to her, of course. She was here to do a job, not to drool over her client. “Good morning, Mr. McBride.”

He seemed to study her smile for a moment, then nodded and reached out to relieve her of her supplies. Without speaking, he held the door so she could enter with her lightweight vacuum cleaner.

She had to pass within inches of him to step inside, which made her even more aware of his height and the intriguing width of his shoulders. Chiding herself for being so easily and so uncharacteristically distracted from the job at hand, she asked, “Is there anything in particular you want me to do here today?”

He shrugged. “Whatever needs doing. I heard your roof is leaking. How bad is it?”

She frowned. “How did you…Oh, you’ve talked with your brother.”

“Yes. So, where’s the leak?”

Unsure how she felt about knowing he and Trevor had been talking about her, even in passing, she replied, “The worst leak is in my bedroom, but there’s also a small drip in the kitchen.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“If there are any supplies you need, I’ll pay for them, of course.”

He nodded. “I get a discount at the local hardware store. If I need anything, I’ll put it on my account there and you can reimburse me.”

She hoped the supplies wouldn’t be too expensive. The money she’d brought with her to Honoria had been severely depleted by utility deposits and other expenses required to move into the run-down house she’d inherited from her eccentric great-uncle. She still had money in her savings account from the sale last year of her uncle’s possessions, but she wanted to spend it wisely. Until she built a more solid clientele for her cleaning service, her income was somewhat limited.

She thought wistfully of the bank account she had in Atlanta, money she wouldn’t touch unless it was absolutely necessary. After ending an engagement that had been the worst mistake of her life, she had boldly declared her independence from her family and their money nearly two months ago during a blazing row with her overbearing father. It had been her twenty-sixth birthday, and she had announced that she was quite capable of taking care of herself, paying her own bills, making her own decisions. She only wished she had known just how daunting—and expensive—such a declaration would be.

The money wouldn’t have made any difference, she assured herself, still convinced she’d made the right decision. But at least a little forewarning would have kept her from being so overwhelmed by the financial reality of owning an old, neglected house.

Realizing that Trent was studying her intently, and that she must have been standing there frowning for several long moments, she smoothed her expression. “Thank you all the work you’ve done, and especially for fixing my step. I feel much safer on it now.”

He answered in a growl. “It was an accident waiting to happen. You’re lucky you haven’t broken your neck.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing special you want me to do here today?”

She was beginning to think he wasn’t going to answer when he surprised her by saying, “I’m out of clean socks. You can do a load of laundry, if you have time.”

She smiled, pleased that he’d made a request for a change. “Sure. No problem.”

“Lock up when you leave,” he said, turning abruptly away.

“Yes, I will. And Mr. McBride, I—”

Whatever she might have said faded into silence when he left without another word. He was walking stiffly today, she noted. Had he hurt himself working at her place Tuesday? She couldn’t help worrying about those injuries Martha Godwin had hinted at, but she suspected Trent wouldn’t appreciate personal questions.

Since she was no more interested in answering personal questions than he probably was, she decided she had better just mind her own business.

IT HAD BEEN a long time since Trent had been drawn out of his own problems enough to be actively curious about anyone else. But as he sat on Annie Stewart’s roof, pounding nails into loose shingles, he found himself wondering about her. He knew why he had chosen to live a hermit’s life during the past year—mostly because he hadn’t known what else to do—but what was Annie’s story? What had brought her to Honoria? Where was her family?

She seemed intelligent enough and he would be willing to bet she was well educated. So why had she chosen to clean houses for a living? Had she no other goals, no plans? No dreams?

Had her dreams, like his, been taken away, leaving her lost and aimless—a condition he knew all too well?

“I had a feeling I would find you up there.”

Frowning, Trent pushed his glasses higher on his nose and looked over the edge of the roof. His brother stood on the ground below, his hands on his hips as he gazed upward. “You should know better than to sneak up on a guy who’s alone on a roof.”

“And you should know better than to be alone on a roof. You want to risk ending up in a wheelchair again?”

Trent hated being reminded of his limitations. “You’re the one who told me Annie’s roof leaked. I’m fixing it.”

“I also told you I would help you.” Trevor planted a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder propped against the side of the house.

Trent suddenly realized that his brother wore jeans and a sweatshirt rather than his usual suit and tie. “Don’t you have to work today?”

Joining him on the roof, Trevor shook his head. “Nope. I took the day off. Mental-health day. I don’t have to be in court, and all my appointments can wait until next week. Jamie’s teaching, Sam’s in school and Abbie’s with the nanny. Today is all mine.”

“So you decided to spend it on Annie’s roof.”

Trevor shrugged and reached for an extra hammer from Trent’s toolbox. “I decided to spend it with you.”

Trent had to make an effort to grumble. “I’m having dinner at your house this evening. Isn’t that enough family togetherness for you?”

Unoffended, Trevor moved to a curled shingle and examined it. “The roof really needs to be replaced altogether.”

Remembering Annie’s cautious look when she’d offered to reimburse him for supplies, Trent shrugged. “I don’t think she can afford that right now. I’m patching the leaks as well as possible until she can have the whole job done.”

Trevor reached for a handful of roofing nails. “Having any trouble with your back?”

His back ached every time he stretched and bent, actually, but he had gotten used to pain. On a scale of one to ten—and he was all too well acquainted with ten—he considered his current discomfort a six. “I’m fine.”

“Good. Just be careful not to overdo it.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Mom.”

Trevor made a production of looking horrified. “God forbid.”

A small plane passed overhead, flying low as it headed for the private airstrip on the north side of town. Trent’s gaze was involuntarily drawn upward. He noted automatically that the craft was a Beechcraft V-tail, that the landing gear was already down, the descent slow and smooth. His knuckles tightened around his hammer, and he could almost feel the yoke in his hands.

The plane disappeared behind a line of trees. His memories flashed to the last time he’d flown. And then moved further ahead, images so vivid he could almost smell the smoke again, hear the creak and pop of heating metal, feel the pain of his injuries and the sick certainty that he would die there in the wreckage of aircraft and ego, a casualty of his own recklessness.

“Trent?”

Something in his brother’s voice made Trent suspect it wasn’t the first time he’d spoken. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

“Are you going to talk or nail shingles?” Trent retorted, chagrined at being caught in one of his frequent daytime nightmares. The ones during the night were even worse, but at least he had no witnesses then.

Trevor sighed and moved to a new spot. “Forgive me for being concerned,” he muttered.

Pointedly ignoring him, Trent went back to work, concentrating fiercely on the task and pushing the memories to the back of his mind.

THERE WAS ANOTHER NOTE on Trent’s refrigerator when he arrived home that afternoon. “Your laundry is folded on the bed,” it read. “I didn’t know if you wanted me to open closets and drawers to put things away. I forgot to ask.”

Again, there was a postscript: “Did you make that big rocker by the fireplace? It’s fabulous.”

Shaking his head, Trent reached into the fridge and pulled out a cola. He drained a third of it in one long guzzle, then read the note in his hand again. Annie seemed to have a thing for his furniture.

Remembering the worn odds and ends of furniture he’d seen when he went in her house to check the ceiling for signs of leaks, he suspected that most of it had been chosen for economy rather than personal taste.

She was definitely an odd cookie, he thought, tossing the note onto the counter. Pretty, but odd.

He moved into his bedroom to put his neatly folded socks and underwear away, and found himself wondering again what her story was. It irritated him to realize that he was suddenly feeling rather protective of her. Working on her roof earlier, he’d had the irritatingly satisfying feeling that he was helping someone who needed him.

As if he had anything to offer Annie—or anyone, he added with a heavy scowl.

THE FIRST THING Annie always did when she returned home on Tuesday and Friday afternoons was to find out what Trent had done that day. It amazed her how much he had accomplished in the three weeks that had passed since they had begun their arrangement. Their only personal interaction during those weeks had been the mornings when she arrived at his house to clean.

She thought she’d done a decent job of hiding her reaction to him during those fleeting encounters. She wanted to think he had no idea that she all but melted every time he looked at her in that sizzlingly intense manner of his. But she wouldn’t be surprised if he suspected it, anyway. A man like Trent had to be used to finding puddles of women at his feet.

His mother had warned her that Trent considered their arrangement only temporary and was likely to end it at any time, but Annie wasn’t worried. Even if he decided today that they’d swapped their last service, she still believed it had been well worth it. Her front step was safe to walk on now, her roof hadn’t leaked during a fairly heavy rain yesterday, he had cleaned out her gutters and unclogged her drains. She didn’t know how many hours he’d spent there—he was always gone by the time she came home—but she knew he’d spent more time working at her place than she had at his.

Determined to repay him, she had worked very hard at his place—cleaning, scrubbing, shining and polishing everything in his house. He’d given her free rein, so she had scrubbed floors, cleaned the oven and refrigerator and washed windows—inside and out. She’d dusted and vacuumed everything that hadn’t moved, but it still didn’t feel like enough.

There was an odd intimacy to spending so much time in his home while he was working in hers. She didn’t feel that way about her other clients, seeing their houses as just rooms to clean and money to earn—but it was different, somehow, with Trent. She told herself it was only because she was aware that he was as familiar with her home as she was with his. There was certainly no more personal element involved between them.

When she walked into her place on the first Tuesday afternoon in March—her fourth week of working for Trent—she was startled to find his big wooden rocker sitting in her living room. No, not his rocker, she realized, taking a step closer. Just as beautiful, but not the same. The color was slightly different, the grain not quite like the other.

There was a note taped to the back of the chair. In printed block letters it said, “You said you like my rocker. This was the first one I made. I broke the arm and had to glue it, but if you want it, it’s yours.” He hadn’t bothered to sign his name.

Her heart in her throat, she studied the rocker more closely. She found the break he’d referred to, eventually. The wood had apparently split when he’d nailed it, but he’d repaired it so expertly that only an obsessive perfectionist could find fault with it. But she was crazy about it, trivial flaw and all.

Hardly able to believe what he had done, she sank into the chair and began to rock, her work-weary muscles almost sighing in relief. Annie had grown up surrounded by beautiful, expensive things, but she had never fallen this hard for any inanimate object.

She could picture herself sitting in this wonderful chair on the cold nights still ahead, rocking, resting, listening to music from the stereo she was going to buy as soon as she had saved enough. Everything her uncle had owned had been sold at an estate auction, by his request, a few months after he’d died, and the proceeds had been deposited into an account for her, so there had been no furniture when she’d moved into the house he’d left her. She’d had to pick up a few odds and ends at secondhand shops to get by until she could do better. This chair was now the nicest piece she possessed. Having this beautiful rocker to relax in would certainly brighten up her evenings.

She had never envisioned herself living alone this way, but there were times when she actually enjoyed it enough to forget about the loneliness.

Had her uncle Carney enjoyed the solitary existence he’d led here? Eccentric and free-spirited, he’d rebelled early against the stringent expectations of his family—something Annie now understood all too well. She hadn’t seen her uncle often, only when he breezed through Atlanta to make contact with his only living relatives—her father and her—a total of only half a dozen times or so that Annie could remember. But he had always seemed fond of her, telling her wonderful stories about all the places he had seen, all the adventures he’d had.

He’d settled in Honoria—for reasons no one but him had ever known—after he’d broken a hip and had no longer been able to travel as he once had. He’d lived here nearly ten years before his death, but apparently hadn’t really gotten to know anyone in this town very well. Annie hoped to make a few more friends here than her great-uncle had. She only wished that she could have gotten to know Carney, himself, better. He would have understood, as no one else could, her need to break away from her parents, her father, in particular.

Her hand still stroking the chair, she glanced at the telephone nearby. Trent wasn’t the type to graciously accept gratitude—he’d always brushed her off when she’d tried to thank him for the work he’d done here—but she couldn’t wait until Friday to tell him how much this meant to her.

He answered in his usual curt manner. “H’lo?”

She spoke without bothering to identify herself. “Thank you. The chair is beautiful.”

“You didn’t have to call. I said you can have it if you want it.”

“Of course I want it. I love it. But—”

“Good. It was in my way here. I don’t need two.”

“I’d like to pay you for it,” she offered boldly. “You must have spent hours making it. Not to mention the materials.”

“Forget it. It wasn’t for sale, anyway. I told you, it’s flawed.”

“But—”

“Look, do you want the chair or not?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Fine. Enjoy it. See you Friday.”

A dial tone sounded in her ear before she could say anything else.

Blinking, she hung up the receiver, then laughed incredulously, shaking her head. Trent McBride was one of the most exasperating men she had ever met. Rude, moody, withdrawn—and yet there was a streak of kindness and generosity in him that he hadn’t quite been able to hide from her.

She had learned a little more about him during the past three weeks. She hadn’t asked questions—she would consider that both unprofessional and unethical—but the people here seemed anxious to volunteer information about each other. They’d told her that Trent had been hospitalized for weeks after his accident, and that his injuries, whatever they were, had put an end to his air force career. And now everyone wondered what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

Annie wondered about that herself—not that it was any of her business, of course. Several of her clients had tried to pump her for information about Trent, but she refused to cooperate, skillfully changing the subject whenever his name came up.

She crossed the room, stroked a hand over one satiny-smooth arm of the rocker, then sank into it again. Putting her head back, she closed her eyes and began to rock. The pleasurable sigh that escaped her seemed to echo in the quiet room.

GIVING ANNIE THE CHAIR had probably been a mistake, Trent thought glumly as he stared into his refrigerator on Friday of the following week. He’d thought she might like it, but he hadn’t been prepared for her to show her gratitude quite so…fervently. A stack of casserole dishes—enough for several days of meals—were neatly stacked in the fridge. Two loaves of fresh-baked bread sat on his counter. There was a plant on his kitchen windowsill, for Pete’s sake.

He’d only given her an extra chair that had been sitting in his workshop—a chair with a patched arm, for that matter. Had no one ever been nice to the woman before? He should have tried harder to talk himself out of the impulse when it had first occurred to him.

He closed the refrigerator and reached for the cup of coffee he’d poured a few minutes earlier. He’d thought he was hungry, but seeing all that food in there had killed his appetite. No more generous gestures, he promised himself. He didn’t want to encourage any more awkward expressions of gratitude.

She knocked on his front door just as he finished his coffee. As he went to let her in, he hoped she wasn’t bringing food or flowers this time.

Fortunately she was only carrying her cleaning supplies. She gave him one of her dimpled smiles when he reached out to relieve her of the heavy tote. He hated the way his abdomen tightened when she did that.

He was trying his best not to be attracted to her. But he was. He didn’t even particularly want to like her. But he did. Damn it.

“Good morning,” she said.

He nodded, dragging his gaze away from her sweetly curved mouth. “I thought I would fix that kitchen-cabinet door by your sink today. I noticed it keeps swinging open.”

Her smile tilted ruefully. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hit my head on it. I was beginning to think I was going to have a permanent goose egg on my forehead.”

He glanced automatically at her smooth forehead, seeing no damage there. No flaws at all, for that matter.

“Anything special you want me to do here?” she asked, her voice suddenly uncertain—as if the tension he was feeling this morning had rubbed off on her.

He shook his head. “I’m on my way out.”

He left quickly, before he could make a total fool of himself.

As he let himself into her house a short while later and inhaled the lemon-and-flower scents that he associated now with Annie, he reminded himself that the month he’d originally granted for this arrangement was over. He’d gotten quite a lot done on her house; he could quit in good conscience now. Of course, it had been kind of nice having his house cleaned regularly, his laundry done, his fridge filled with ready-to-nuke meals. And her house did need quite a few more repairs.